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I follow him, wired and wary and annoyed at myself for not being more diplomatic. Guy just lost everyone, he’s right where he witnessed it all, and I’m just blurting out whatever comes to my mind.
Awesome.
The bedroom is tidy, adding to the illusion that someone’s still living here. The single bed is covered in a patchwork quilt, and there’s a stack of old newspapers on the nightstand, with a pair of black-rimmed glasses.
“Is this Jonathan’s room?”
He casts me a blank look, then nods. “Yeah.”
I guess he’ll forever think of the guy as his grandfather, and beat himself up over it every time.
West crouches down by the open closet, where papers spill on the carpet, pouring out of old shoeboxes.
“What are all those?”
“Old documents. Newspaper clippings. Some… some have to do with Della. The prizes she won.” He pushes a box away. “He stalked her, or something. Fucking hell, I’m not sure I even wanna know the whole truth.”
“I get it.” Dropping down to the carpet, I shove papers back into the old shoeboxes. “You’ve had a fucking overdose of truth lately, buddy. Too much truth can fuck you over.”
“A bit too late for that,” he says bitterly, letting scraps of clippings fall through his fingers. “Fuck all this. Let whoever inherits it deal with it. I’m gonna grab my things from my room and go.”
“West, wait a sec.” I take the scraps of paper and place them into one of the boxes. “Talking about truth… There’s something else, right? Something else that happened you’re not telling us? I just—”
“Don’t, Kash, okay, it’s none of your goddamn business—”
“Christ, you know that’s not true anymore!” I suck in a deep breath, try to control myself. Curl my hands into fists, tell my heart to calm the fuck down, and lower my voice. “Come on, West. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I only wanna help.”
“You can’t, dude.” He rubs the back of his neck. “You can’t solve everything, save everyone. Deal with it.”
“Fuck you.” I shove at him. “Doesn’t mean I should stop trying. Because if I stop…” Ah fuck. My heart is racing a million miles an hour. Bile rises in my throat. “I just can’t…”
Climbing to my feet, I stagger out, through the living room and throw the balcony door open. I fumble with my pouch, but I have a joint ready, half-smoked from before, and I stick it in my mouth.
By the time I light up, West has come out and is leaning against the rail, gazing down at the side street below. “You okay?”
One hand clutching the rail, I suck in smoke and give a small nod. “Yeah.”
He waits until my breathing slows down and my grip on the rail relaxes. “What were you going to say back there? If you stop trying… what then?”
I look down at a cat crossing the street and consider serving him his own medicine. Tell him it’s none of his business, but those were desperate words, and besides… unless I give something, I can’t expect something back, can I?
“If I stop trying, I might as well lie down in a grave and die.”
He sighs. “What am I missing? What’s that ink on your arms about, the phoenix and dragon? Are you in a cult or something?”
“…A cult?” I glance down at my tattoos. That wasn’t the question I expected, though what exactly I’d expected… “No. A friend of a friend did these for me, back home.” I wince. “Back where I come from. Zane Madden is the artist’s name.”
“Never heard of him. Where was that?”
“North.” I watch the smoke rise. “Wisconsin.”
He comes to stand beside me. “And why the phoenix?”
“Dunno. Rebirth through flame? It sounded good at the time.”
“And the dragon?”
“That means my family fucked me over.”
